Like a River to the Sea
by Alexa Bleach
Summary: He can feel it pulling him, but he doesn't know where it goes. ACCELERATOR/LAST ORDER


**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own To Aru Majutso no Index. I make no profit from this story, or the characters contained within.

**LIKE A RIVER TO THE SEA**

Words are funny things. Before there was math, or science, or engineering, or physics or history, there were words. And from words grew stories and from stories grew history, and from history grew tomorrow.

"Once upon a time," a man in the desert said, "there were two people who loved each other very much---"

Once upon a time, there was a boy who saved a girl at a very high price.

Once upon a time, there was a small girl in a room, with empty arms that ached to hold him.

---

He saw only shapes.

There was one shape in specific that recalled old, deep currents like those of a strong river, but he was unable to plumb its depths. No matter. He tried to understand, and felt a sensation of unbalance as he realized that he _couldn't_ understand--- he had no reference, and he knew just enough to know he lacked.

"---?!?" He tried to voice his distress, make cutting phrases out of air and anger, but nothing came. He tried again, and only gargled garbled grunts.

The shape--- which was pink and peach and vaguely female--- moved and lifted and chased. He was puzzled by this, but his question came out as a series of meaningless sounds. The shape touched him, and there was something familiar in the shape of her

hands _(they're called hands, and the little wiggly bits are called fingers, and the little round parts are called nails and they look so much like seashells--- little white seashells washed ashore by some far-distant sea)_

"Hnns," he said, and was pleased it sounded something like a word's cousin. "Hnnnds. Hhands. Hands."

The shape burbled happily in joyful noises; he couldn't recognize many of them, but he caught 'hands' at least once.

The colors shifted for a moment, and he thought they might part and reveal the world in precise colors defined by chemical properties (no more of this shifty shadowy business--- too much like a

painting _(it's something to hang on the wall, something someone makes to show feelings and emotions, something useless and beautiful)_

He didn't try to say 'painting,' but kept the pleasant feeling of it in his head. The shape burbled at him more, and waved its arms which were attached to its shoulders which were attached to its torso which was clad in a pink dress with orange stripes which was made for a child which clothed something that was not a child---

"--- are you okay, MISAKA MISAKA asks with great concern?" The shape, which was now a girl who occupied the orange and pink dress, peered up at him.

He garbled at her, still trying to make sense of these words. _Suddenly, there's so very much to know--- all these words to describe things tangible and intangible and how the hell am I supposed to remember all of these words and feelings?_

"It's okay that you can't talk, MISAKA MISAKA says indifferently, because Doctor Frog-Face said it would be a long time before you could speak properly."

He blinked. It was a painful process, finding these words suddenly returning. _There's so much thinking to do at once._ He felt it again, that deep river pulling on old fishing lines--- as though he had once known some sort of trick to thinking, once he had used it like a weapon...

He shook his head, and the river vanished. "Who are you?" he said to the shape, but his mouth slurred, and it came out as, "Huu eir yuu?"

_There are better questions to ask._ "Who am I?" for one, but this came out as, "Huu em aii?"

"It's hard to explain that, MISAKA MISAKA says dejectedly," the pink and orange female said sadly. "I'll tell you one day soon."

_Stories are things you tell to children to make them feel better,_ he thinks, and the words are moving faster in his head, like a storm wind gathering speed and velocity. _I want a history, a truthful recounting of events past and previous. Who am I? Why am I in this bed, with you staring at me as though I am a miracle?_

But there is still something still within him, and that deep, nameless river prompts only a feeling of gentle content, so he leaves his questions unasked for now.

**Author's Note:** Yo gaiz I did some research on this, and tried to make it as realistic as possible for someone recovering from a brain injury. :/ I'm pretty sure this is still too polished for someone just returning from a coma, but whatever. There may be more... actually, I'd really like to draw this... anyway, later bros.


End file.
